Оригинален текст
(feat. Big Gee)
Yung Joc
What it is man (sup?)
Yung Joc, Block Entertainment
Yeah, you wan' know somethin? (What'chu wanna know nigg*?)
I'ma take this motherfkin time to let y'all know
I'm tired of playin games.. I'm tired of playin wit'chu man
(Preach on) Y'all comin up short on your money
Your re-up s**t ain't right (nope, nope)
Your grams off nigg*, get that s**t right
(Tell 'em shawty) Let me talk to y'all
This ain't make believe so why the fk is you playin
You better listen close to what the fk I'm sayin
Cause really all it takes is a couple grand
Like AT&T I reach out and I touch a man
Or I can let it go cause it ain't nuttin man
But naw it's the principle so fk what you sayin
E'ry dollar I want it, e'ry dime I need that
So when it's time to break bread gimme no feedback (shhh)
Cause you don't want to pi*s me off
And I get to poppin like we poppin Cristal
See I cain't help it, that's just how we get down
Let off a couple rounds, turn your smile to a frown
Yeahhh I know, you think I'm bluffin
'Til I kick the do' and the goons they rush in
Lay down on the flo' where you keep the coke in
You say "I don't know" then your blood start gushin
Chorus 2X: Yung Joc
I done told your as* once (once) told your as* twice (twice)
fkin with my paper, you're fkin wit'cha life (wit'cha life)
Don't play with it (blam) don't play with it (blam)
Don't play with it (blam) nigg* don't play with it (blam)
Big Gee
Here he come once again Mr. Murder Man
Smokin on the purple bad, pistol in my other hand
fkin with my rubberbands get your as* murdered fast
Chop you up and chop ya, then stuff ya in a duffel bag
Ride wit'cha in the trunk 'til ya smellin bad
Get your daughter after class, ride by sn*tch her ass
I know a p*ssy nigg* owe me a couple stack
Pop him like he never had, but the nigg* holdin back (nah)
I ain't trippin now I'm lettin 'em pass, got that ass
So I'm in the good, nigg* smokin like a thermostat
Flashin hella stacks, pie nigg* Pontiac
Actin for these hoes with my money, what kinda s**t is that?
I ain't feelin that, pay me for my fkin pack
E'ry dime off e'ry zone, don't gimme that (nah)
See it time for the chrome, go on pull it out
Sad Sunday service for the sucker in the parking lot
Chorus
Yung Joc
Better know the repercussions fkin with my dividends
Yeah I got a hitman for the hitmen
Leave your baby momma numb and I touch many fans
If ye ain't tryin to see it I suggest you start prayin
All I'm sayin; don't try to play me like I'm soft
Treat you like mosquitoes when I skeet you with that Off
That Joc crawl blood, nigg* call me Red Cross
Leave your wig leakin like you spilled spaghetti sauce
repeat 2X
fkin with my paper - ye ain't right
I'ma send them gators - in the middle of the night
Let 'em split your tater - in front your wife
No one can save ya - put out your lights
Chorus
voice speaking over Chorus to end
C'mon man
That ain't how you do the s**t bruh
Out'chea playin with a nigg* money and s**t
That ain't the s**t to be fkin with
It's hard out'chea in these streets nigg*
fkin people fkin wit'cha
rattin and s**t
That ain't what's up dawg
It's the big dawg Diesel
Yung Joc in the building, ya heard me?
